Semper Fidelis
by LoveJoyJohnlock
Summary: Of all the things John doesn't know how to do without Mary, being a father is probably the most significant. Being a single father was something John never dreamed of becoming, but sometimes, our dreams don't determine the courses of our lives. Pre-Series, from Mary's death to Sam leaving for Stanford. Wee!Chesters/Teen!Chesters. Warning: Extreme Angst Ahead. Rated T for language.
1. Morgue

**A/N: Hello people of the angsty variety. If you cannot handle angst or would rather read a good humor fic or fluff, good on you, leave this page. Let me just get something out of the way first: I don't know much about writing fanfiction. I'm already a writer, but entering other peoples' worlds is somewhat new to me. If any details stray from canon, tell me. Constructive criticism wanted. Rated T for language in later chapters. Also, this is ****NOT SLASH.**** I like slash as much as the next person; this just isn't that kind of story.**

Chapter 1: Morgue

John hears the sirens, crying and screaming in the night, but he doesn't listen to them. He just stares at the flames pawing at the windows, the smoke spiraling through the midnight sky. A starless night. A moonless night, blank as a motionless television screen except for the waltz of the flames and the shakes of Dean's sobs against his legs.

He wants to run back inside. He wants to go inside and hold Mary against his chest and tell her it's going to be all right and feel the tickle of her blond curls against his unshaven chin. He wants to save her, even though he knows she's dead already.

When the police cars and ambulances and fire trucks arrive, Sammy begins to cry. The flash of cerulean, white and red lights along with the patchwork of sounds are overwhelming to John, and must be even more so to his sons. Gently, he rocks Sam back and forth. Sammy quiets a bit, his squalls muting to slight cries. Firefighters spill out of the trucks in orange vests, racing into the house. He watches as they spray it with water and for a second he almost wants to preserve the flames, keep them burning forever along with the broken shred of hope that Mary might still be alive.

It's a hunting thing. John knows it because every time anyone close to him had lost anyone it had been because of hunting. That was the reason Mary had given him. "It's the thing that killed everything I cared about. That's what it is. It's just pain and suffering and death and it puts everything you love in danger. That's why I'm not letting you or Sammy or Dean get mixed up in it. I'll never let that happen."

"Daddy? Is Mommy going to come out too?" Dean's voice is tiny and shrunken, and he wants to bend down and embrace his older son and tell him that everything will always be okay, but the baby in his arms won't allow it.

"I don't know, buddy. I don't know where she is. But she's going to be fine. She's going to be all right. Just stay with me and help me take care of Sammy until she gets back, okay?" It's a lie that would be obvious to a casual observer, but it isn't to John or to the ears of a young child unfamiliar to lying. If John tries hard enough, maybe he can convince himself it's true and cradle her warm memory in his arms.

Mary's words still burn caustically in his memory when paramedics wrestle his children away from him. They check every inch of his sons, listening to their breathing for smoke inhalation, examining their skin. Sammy's crying permeates the air. When the boys have been confirmed safe, John's relief infuses his veins and he almost collapses. No need to lose more people he cares about, especially in one night. The paramedic hands baby Sammy back to him and mutters to him something that sounds like "I'm sorry."

Sorry about what? It isn't as if the paramedic is responsible for anything.

Dean wraps himself around his father's jeans. He stops crying and looks up with shining green eyes the color of grapevines and says, "Mommy isn't coming back, is she?"

John decides that it's better to tell Dean the truth when he's numb than when his son can see him crying. "No. She won't."

Dean doesn't cry, just says a little hurt, "Oh" as he stares into the flames.

The fire starts to fade now, its fingers dissipated into claws of smoke. The paramedics can't collect Mary's body, not until the fire is out. Mary's body. He has to keep reminding himself that it'll be a body, an empty husk, and not his wife that will be rolled out of the house.

Sammy's crying has blossomed again, loud enough to overlap with the disjointed radio signals and shouts of firefighters and policemen.

Dean's let go of John now. "Here. I'll take him."

Hesitantly, John hands the crying baby to Dean. "Fine. That's fine."

Dean holds Sam against his chest, rocking him back and forth. It's a strange sight, a child cradling what looked like a baby doll only slightly smaller than him in his arms. "Shh. Sammy. It's okay."

Sam stops crying and looks around at the shadows of people moving into the house. John's glad Sam is a baby and doesn't understand what's going on. Unfortunately, he can't say the same for Dean, who will suffocate in "adult" nightmares for months.

"You're good," he says to Dean, a small scrap of a sweet familial moment that John can almost pretend belongs to a different time. "You'd make a great dad. I can't even get him to calm down like you can."

"Thank you, Daddy," Dean lisps. The boy looks at the ground.

Then he sees the men carrying a stretcher out of the house and John runs and he's biting his tongue and the air is chalky with smoke and hard to breathe and he sees the charred and blackened body like a strip of coal and he smells burnt flesh and he screams her name, over and over again, as though doing that will make her be all right. He whispers to her body that everything is all right and that he saved Sam and Dean. He knows she can't hear him. He knows she's long gone. He doesn't care. He doesn't dare questioning his logic because it'll force him to face up to the truth.

When the ambulance doesn't turn on its sirens, John realizes.

The police rule out murder. In fact, they don't even consider it.

There's no reason to consider it. There's no reason they would, so John tries not to blame them. Mary's body is too broken and burnt to perform a proper autopsy. A room which may have been full of evidence has been ground to gray dust. They determine it a tragic gas leak. The story makes the papers, despite John's wishes for it to remain private. He hears people whispering too, about the _tragic loss of a young life _and _how sad it must be _and _those poor boys living without a mother. _He tries to swallow their whispers with alcohol, but they never disappear. Drinking amplifies his grief, but makes the ache in his chest a little more bearable, the bubbling of champagne in his bloodstream, the empty chemical taste living on his tongue. He decides he can't let himself become a full on drunk, because he has two boys he needs to look after and he can't even try to think about becoming a cruel, alcohol infected monster with no right to even have children.

The day after the fire, John drives his sons down to clear out the house.

When he arrives, it's quiet and empty. The smell of burning intoxicates John. He coughs away the smell, the chemical burning that reaches his nostrils despite the face mask he uses to avoid chemical poisoning. Dean wears one too. Sam isn't here. He hired a babysitter.

"Don't take your mask off," John says to Dean. "Don't breathe in anything here."

"Can I go into Sammy's room?" Dean's expression is filled with such exuberance it weighs on John to actually say no.

"No. It isn't safe in there."

"I want to look for Mommy." Dean looks up at him with eyes green and hopeful enough to make him look out of place in this barren wasteland that was once their home. "I want to see if she's in there."

"She isn't in there. They took her to the morgue."

"What's a morgue?"

Of all the things John doesn't know how to do without Mary, being a father is probably the most significant. Being a single father was something John never dreamed of becoming, but sometimes, our dreams don't determine the courses of our lives. He doesn't know how to answer this question. Last night he hoped that Dean had caught on to the concept of his mother's death. It didn't.

"It's where they keep bodies," says John. "Before the funeral."

"So Mommy's dead?"

"Yes."

John continues to walk through the house when he hears a tiny sniffle, barely audible. He spins around. Dean is crying, tears streaking down his face, little-kid snot trailing from his nose.

"Hey. Dean. It's okay. It's going to be okay," said John. "Did your Mom ever tell you about angels?"

"She said that they're watching over me."

"Yeah? Well, that's where your Mommy is now. She's with the angels, and she's looking after you like she always does. You just won't be able to see her anymore," said John. His voice fragments. He continues. "So don't worry about her being hurt or upset, because that's what she's doing right now."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely." John gathers Dean in his arms and holds him close to his chest.

"What does 'absolutely' mean?"

"It means 'for sure'." John doesn't know if that's an exact definition, but it's the closest thing a four year old can understand, even if he doesn't believe "absolutely" is the case. "Come on. Put your things in that bag. If it can't fit into that trash bag, then don't bring it. Get anything you can find that's Sammy's, just not in his room or in the T.V. room."

"Why can't I bring everything?"

"Because we're moving," says John.

"Where?" asks Dean.

"I don't know yet. I'll figure something out."


	2. Innocence

**A/N: Hello everyone. I forgot to add a disclaimer in the last chapter, so I'll add an extra one here: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, this would be in the actual show by now. Anyways, Kid!Dean and Baby!Sammy coming up. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, Jo Harvelle would not have died.**

Chapter 2: Innocence

John decides to hold a closed coffin funeral.

There is something left, so her body wasn't completely shattered into ashes by feral flames, but its so charred and blackened and decayed by fire he knows that seeing her would traumatize anyone with a healthy sense of empathy and a gag reflex. It sounds insensitive, especially to John, but he knows that if Mary were here she would say the same thing. She wouldn't want people to see her ashes, the bleached teeth standing out starkly against what was one her skull.

So when he enters the room, he sees the wooden cage that contains his wife's remains. It's painted with a gloss over its dark mahogany wood, and if John looks closely enough he can see his own face and cheeks glistening with tears.

No one comes to Mary's funeral. She decided years ago she would keep friendships and connections to a minimum to protect the people around her. Dating John had been a stretch from her "don't get close to anyone" philosophy. She went to more funerals than she ever wanted to.

Her own funeral begins with a slow rise of funeral music echoing through the church. Dressed in black clothes, five adult figures and two younger ones appear, but they don't cry. Crying is a betrayal of Mary's memory, even if she only exists in the minds of a few humans there. Dressed in a cheap suit that smells like rain and sweatshop worker fabric, he sits in the front pew with his sons. He cradles Sammy, who is dressed in a miniature tuxedo he can't help but remember Mary wanted to give to Sam for his first Christmas, in his arms. Dean sits there, his tiny feet dangling off the edge.

The pastor stands up and talks about Mary, about how lively she was, about the beautiful, innocent blue of her eyes and the way she humbled everyone with her existence, with her righteousness. John wonders if the pastor would say the same words if he knew about Mary's upbringing.

John manages to tone it out. He doesn't think, doesn't feel, and doesn't look down at the tiny tuxedo accented with a fabric rose that his young son wears.

John hasn't been religious, not since he got back from the war. Still, he prays to his wife. _Mary. Please. I don't know what to do. I don't know what the fuck to do._

The pastor tells the grievers to stand. John stands with military urgency, his motions mechanical.

Dark graphite clouds hover over the church when they leave. They walk to the graveyard, Dean clutching at his father's heels. The procession of footsteps sets a certain rhythm to grief: the black, shining shoes like the backsides of beetles, the clacking of feet against a hard sidewalk. Wind tears at the trees as their branches reach like savage arms toward John. No. Not toward John. Toward _Sam. _

They lower Mary into the ground. Her coffin disappears beneath the earth and all he sees of her now is a person sized mound of dirt beneath a granite tombstone dating Mary's birth and death.

"Daddy?" Dean wraps his arms around his father's legs. "Daddy, I want to go home."

"Me too, kiddo," says John. "But we can't do that."

Then the tears come.

Everyone else leaves except for the pastor. He stretches out a hand to John and shakes it. "Pastor Jim Murphy. I'm sorry for your loss."

There it is again. Pity. It pisses John off, not because of the sympathy, but because of the misplaced apology. Everyone should be apologizing to Mary, who burnt to death pinned to her own ceiling, her lips open and holding an unexposed cry. He could say that, but he doesn't. "Thank you."

"I have to talk to you," Pastor Murphy says. "Without your sons. I know what happened to your wife. I know it wasn't a gas leak."

John lunges at the pastor and grips his shoulders. "You weren't the one that did this, are you? Are you?"

"No," says Pastor Murphy. "Give the kids to my wife. She'd love to have something to do."

"So monsters" John sets down the cup of tea that's slowly cooling with every second he neglects it. He stares into the murky water, at the small clumps of herbs of tea that has been steeped too long. "And you've been hunting these things for how long?"

They're sitting in Pastor Jim Murphy's house by a dying fireplace, John wrapped in a green wool blanket given to him by the pastor. It makes him feel small, like a child, but he appreciates the brief comfort that soaks through his skin because of it. Lining the walls are guns, machetes and knives, all glistening in silver and burnished red by the faint light of the coals. John knows that under normal circumstances, a house full of weapons should be a warning to stop and run. But these aren't normal circumstances. Dean plays with Sammy in the next room and the giggle of a baby rings through the house like a church bell.

"Years," says Pastor Murphy.

"Honestly," John says, pushing away the tea. "I've known about that for a while. So it doesn't surprise me the same way it would for most people."

"Mary told you? That's a surprise. I thought she would keep it a secret."

"Yeah?" John laughs bitterly. "I didn't exactly find out on the best of circumstances. Doesn't mean I don't still think hunting is batshit insane."

John expects the pastor to flinch at his rough choice of words, but Murphy just laughs. "That's the reaction we always get whenever we try to explain ourselves."

John stands up. He hears Dean's loud shouts and the hushing sound that follows it. "So you think that one of them killed her?"

"And I don't know what kind of monster killed your wife, but I know something did. From what you told me, it's something the police wouldn't even think about considering. Trust me. If it isn't one of the things I fight for a living, I'll be damned. But if it really is something normal, then we'll know that then, won't we? I'll hunt it for you."

"No," says John. There's something hot and burning in his chest, clawing at his heart. "I'll hunt it with you."

"You don't know the first thing about hunting things," says Pastor Murphy. "I'm not bringing a beginner on a hunting trip with me. You'll just get killed. Besides, you have two little boys that need you right now."

"That thing killed my wife," John says, the anger bubbling and scalding his throat. "I want to be the one that kills it."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, Pastor Murphy."

"Please. Call me Jim," says the pastor. "I'll let you come with. Teach you some of the tricks of the trade: how to fight demons, djinn, werewolves…"

John stares at him. "And how do I know you're not some religious whack job luring me into some cult like Mary's parents?"

"You can't know that," says Jim. "But I knew your wife and she told me that if she ever died she wanted me to look after you and make sure you're all right. And that her kids would be all right. I knew her, John, more than most people can say they did. It isn't like she has much family left to grieve over her. So I feel like it's kind of my job to look after you. And if you want out at any point, you can have out. I'll protect you. Oh, and John? Don't insult the Campbells' memories like that. It's not a cult. It's a lifestyle."

John takes a deep breath. The weapons on the wall feel as though they're pointed at him by invisible rebels trying to unseat the usurper of their king. "All right. So what kind of… monster do you think it is? Tell me, so that I know how to kill it."

Dean remembers her. His mother's smile, her blue-sky eyes, the edges of grilled cheese crusts arranged into a smiley face. He knows she isn't coming back, that she's something grown ups call dead. They say it when they think you're where you can't hear them, when they think you're so far away you couldn't possibly understand it. They guard it in that adult secret way where Dean feels like it's been locked away. But he hears it anyway.

Dying is what happened to his Mommy. He knows it because he saw a movie about it one time at home. The people walked down a path and looked sad. They cried, which Dean thought was weird because adults don't cry. Only children do. And he was at one of them a few minutes ago, his shoes too big and slipping off his feet, Sammy quiet and asleep in Daddy's arms.

Even if he isn't sure what it means, he knows for sure it means his Mommy isn't coming back. The thought makes his chest hurt, like there's a piece of bubblegum sticking to his throat when he decided to try and swallow it that one time a year ago.

But if he keeps himself thinking about Sammy, he'll keep himself happy.

He pokes Sammy's nose. "Boo."

Sammy giggles and grabs his finger.

Dean does it again. "Boo."

Sammy laughs this time and this time Dean laughs with him. "You like that, Sammy?"

He didn't like his brother when he first came home from that place… what was it called… the _hopsital, _that's what Daddy called it. He felt jealous and wanted her to take him back. But he gradually started to love his brother when he started to be able to do more and more things. It started to be fun to be a big brother. Important. And Mommy told him that when Sammy got older he'd have even more fun.

The lady his daddy left him with watches over them, cloudy gray hair swirling around her shoulders, her eyes the color of police cars. Dean likes police cars. They're loud and made of danger and that's all Dean wants in the world. His Daddy and the man with the white robes call her "Mrs. Murphy". She smiles at them, at Sammy lying on the carpet staring up at the spinning ceiling fan. He decides he'll call her "Grandma". She looks like a grandma.

Then Daddy walks in with the man in the white robe. Was he crying? Dean thought adults never cried. But they do because he sees the tear marks on his Daddy's cheeks. "Dean? We're going out for a little bit."

"Why?"

"We're going to take care of something. Daddy has a new job now and I'm going to my first day of work." Daddy walks over to him, bends down, and hugs him. "Look after your little brother, okay?"

Dean looks at him with something he thinks is a serious _expressession_. "I will."

"Hunting?" Mrs. Murphy l0oks at them. "Do you need me to come with?"

"No," the white robe guy says. "I need you to stay here and look after the kids. From what we researched, the… you know, only goes after women. Or at least that's the pattern we noticed so far."

"Pattern of what?" asks Dean.

"It's nothing to worry about, kiddo," says Daddy. "Just stay here and play with your brother, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says. He hugs his brother's head, gently. "Good luck."

"You too, buddy," Daddy tells him.

Right when he says that, he hears raindrops singing "Hey Jude" on the skylight above Sammy. Good, because he doesn't know how to sing the lullaby to his brother without Mommy. The rain can do it for him.


End file.
